


How I Did It By Jack The Ripper

by starhanie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9501089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhanie/pseuds/starhanie
Summary: __





	

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will forever remain unfinished, I'm sorry.

It shouldn’t have been a calming sight.

He should, by all means, be horrified.

Worried even.

And yet, Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of Marylebone Health Centre, was held in the thralls of fascination as he watched his living companion of two years gently blow smoke into the living room of their shared apartment. He stood by the window, completely motionless, in a way that gave him an aura of elegance and prowess which hid his truly chaotic personality. One side of his body was illuminated by the glow of orange streetlamps beaming from beyond the window pane, twinkling in the dark and gloomy night that had all but engulfed London.

It shouldn’t have been calming to watch as Sherlock Holmes stared out into the abyss of Baker Street in the pouring rain, only occasionally lifting his arm to take another extended drag from his low-tar cigarette and breathe in every vapour of smoke before releasing it and allowing it to float gently towards the ceiling. Minus the breaths they took and the gentle pit-a-pat of raindrops on the large twin windows, the room was completely, yet comfortably, silent. And somewhere, somehow, the romantic hidden in the heart of John Watson came to realise that he was curiously drawn to how he smoked a cigarette early in the morning.

Poised.

Practiced.

Patiently.

And then that silence was broken. Sherlock sighed exuberantly, destroying his lungs once more momentarily before setting down the smouldering end of a cigarette into his makeshift ashtray: an old mug that Mrs Hudson had once loved before Sherlock had thrown it at the wall in a fit of rage one day. The case had driven him to the point where violence was apparently necessary, the great mind of Sherlock being unable to find a solution in the six hours since he’d been asked for assistance from Scotland Yard and so, like many of Mrs Hudson’s possessions, the mug had taken the brunt of what wrath the consulting detective was capable of mustering. Recalling the incident, John chuckled to himself, raising a small glass of whiskey to his lips.

Sherlock had solved it half an hour later.

Of course he had.

*He was Sherlock Holmes.*

“I think I’m going to get some sleep.”

A stern voice replied, “Sherlock.”

“I said no.”

“It's of national importance."

"No."

"There are lives in danger."

"No."

It was quarter to three in the morning. Even in the most dysfunctional of families, quarter to three in the morning was not a normal time for a brother to come calling, even when said brother was essentially the supporting shoulders of the British government. But then, what was normal at a quarter to three in the morning? John reflected that, whilst admittedly it wasn't his first time and the likelihood of it being his last time was very little, drinking a fourth glass of whiskey at quarter to three in the morning wasn't normal either. And then there was Sherlock Holmes... nothing he ever did was particularly normal, John thought. He whipped corpses, dissected bodies, solved murders, chased criminals, lied and cheated his way through conversations as if it were as simple as breathing, and all as an amateur hobby. That was what he did for fun. And John didn't have to be a genius to know that *that* wasn't normal. That Sherlock Holmes wasn't normal.

As he looked from the man by the window to the man by the door, however, John wondered if it was possible for one to be normal in their family. Maybe it was genetic, but when he'd asked on many occasions what their parents had done, in this life or their previous one, to deserve two children as fascinatingly ingenious and knowingly sociopathic as Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, his companion had simply replied that they were irrelevant and then continued onto whichever mad experiment he'd been working on. The last time John had asked, it had been a study into the behavioural habits of honey bees when subjected to extreme stress. That had been six months ago. He hadn't tried to understand the siblings since.

"Sherlock, this is an extremely important international affair. The country's best minds have been investigating it," Mycroft went on to explain.

"Well, clearly they haven't, or I'd have been notified sooner," Sherlock retorted, interrupting his brother with his usual sarcastic tone, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face for a second as he turned around, before focusing his gaze to somewhere outside of the window. His eyes twitched like that of an owl, or a bird of prey, fixating on its victim before readying itself to pounce. He'd seen something or heard something outside the walls of 221b Baker Street which intrigued him more than the words of his beloved elder sibling, though retrospectively, John realised this could have been absolutely anything. Hearing Mycroft sigh in a way that communicates just how immature he thought Sherlock was being, John finished his glass of whiskey and reached to pour himself another.

"Bad date, was it, Dr.Watson?"

"Bills, Mycroft, it's the bills."

"You certain, brother mine?" Sherlock just gave him a look. *The* look. *The* 'we both know what's really going on here' look. *The* 'obviously' look. "Enlightenment me."

Sherlock stepped away from the window and paced across the room, his strides long and slow, as if measured to fit a particular melody being played by an orchestra in his head, unheard by all others save him. There was a pause in the music as he came to the fireplace, and then the piano began as Sherlock's slender fingers tiptoed across the envelopes and loose change that had gathered on the top of the mantlepiece. The music grew louder as he placed a hand on the knife, curling the pale fingers around its handle and yanking it out of the abused and splintered wood it had previously called home. With the flick of the wrist, Sherlock had sent the knife across the room, planting it as the nose of the spray-painted smiley face which adorned the far wall. The crescendo. And then, silence.

"How did you know it was the bills, Sherlock?"

"John told me over breakfast." Sherlock admitted, flopping down into his chair, finally opposite John. "He was complaining that he was going to have to get more hours in order to pay off the bills because apparently, I don't help out."

"You don't," John added.

"I know," Sherlock answered quickly in response as he settled back into the worn leather armchair he had claimed as his and his alone. "Now," he started, turning his attention back to Mycroft who hovered in the doorway, twirling his umbrella around as if he were a chorus member in a musical from Hollywood's golden era, though noticeably less smiley. "Would you like a couple of biscuits on your way out?"

"Who said I was leaving?"

Sherlock emitted a hefty sigh.

"I told you, Mycroft," Sherlock started, spitting the name with venomous distaste, "I'm not interested."

"You're refusing to help out of spite." Normally, it would have been a question, but Mycroft Holmes didn't ask questions unless he already knew the answers. And he always knew the answers. John had learnt that the first time they'd met. The man only questioned him to affirm what deductions he'd already made. He was an arsehole that way. "Even for you that's a little childish."

"Yes, I'm sure. Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Wasn't it you who told me that love is a much more viscous motivator than spite, brother mine?" The younger Holmes brother remained silent, glaring with a look that would have killed a lesser man. Then Mycroft began to smile. A snarling, smarmy, shark-like smile. His freshly-polished shoes clicked as he made his way across the flat, slinging the swinging umbrella up over his left forearm, extending his right hand to John, who set down his whiskey with an expression of mild confusion. "My apologies, John."

"Don't." Sherlock barked from his chair, aggressive yet defeated.

*The* look is plastered on Mycroft's smug little face.

"As I was saying," the elder of the Holmes siblings continued, shooting a glare at his brother, "I extend to you the deepest of apologies."

"You're sorry?" John asked, his voice riddled with confusion. "What for?"

"I'm apologizing," Mycroft corrected. "I'm afraid last time I had you investigate a matter of national importance, it ended in your being kidnapped and decked in explosives. You must accept my apologies as that was not my intention."

John smiled, sarcastically. Little did he know that he had a *the* look of his own. "You don't care about my wellbeing."

Mycroft seemed to ignore that remark, rolling his tongue around his mouth, shifting slightly from foot to foot, the fibres of his suit rubbing together. He retracted the hand that had been extended to John, sliding it back into his trouser pocket and allowing the umbrella to slip down until it adorned his wrist like some sort of ridiculous bracelet. He said nothing as he picked up the bag he'd carried in and dumped on the edge of the room half an hour previously, taking from it a single document and placing it on the breakfast table in the centre of the two large windows of 221b Baker Street, which currently served to provide an ominous orange setting as Mycroft headed to leave the room. As his right foot crossed out of the flat and onto the stairwell, he turned to face Sherlock; his expression was one possessing an equal measure of humour and sincerity.

"Love is a much more vicious motivator than spite, Sherlock," he echoed. "Don't think I can't see that it applies to you too."

"Is that why you're here? To prove a point?"

"Isn't that why we're all here, brother mine?" Mycroft tucks the briefcase under his elbow, reaching into his jacket in order to retrieve his mobile phone. "Why won't you take the case?"

"You know why."

John watched as Sherlock's expression morphed before his eyes. Where once irritation and vague annoyance has ruled, as they always did in Mycroft's presence, pure anger now ruled. He spat those words, his lips tense, his pupils shaking and then suddenly they clicked into place, staring into what soul Mycroft could be argued to possess with the sole will and intention of burning it out. He wasn't just angry, he was defensive. His jaw jutted out from the usual curve of his face, his delicate fingers gripped the green-grey leather of the armchair as if, any moment now, it was to be knowingly prized from his hands. John was certain he had never, not in all the short but concentrated time he'd spent with Sherlock Holmes, that he'd never seen him in such a state of pent-up rage. Yet here he was, directing that malevolent force at his own brother.

Mycroft chuckled. "Quite," he uttered.

Then he was gone.

John frowned. He'd understood every word of their brief conversation, if it could even be labelled as such, and yet he felt utterly alienated, as if a decision had been made and he was none the wiser to what it was, who it involved, why it was happening or, in fact, if there was a decision at all. Somehow, he was both curious and comforted by not knowing the secret Sherlock and Mycroft shared. It was an odd state of mind.

"You know, one day I might actually strangle him." Sherlock uttered under his breath, his expression slowly resetting itself. "I don't think he'd be all that missed."

"He apologized to me," John stated. It was a fairly unrelated statement, but he didn't wish to disturb Sherlock's elaborate murder fantasies.


End file.
